


these deeds will make us mad

by vivacissimo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Behavior, Dubious Morality, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Poisoning, Queenmaker Cassana Baratheon, Robert is an abusive husband, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivacissimo/pseuds/vivacissimo
Summary: “Fair morning indeed, for you are the most beautiful sight for an old woman to set eyes upon,” Cassana replies, leaning down to peek at Jon, who hides behind his mother’s skirts. “My morning would only be improved if I could find my grandson abouts somewhere. I have the sweetest of candies for him, you see, but I fear I might let Renly have it if I cannot find my darling Jon soon…”Jon pokes his head out, dark eyes wide with curiosity. Cassana’s words die in her throat..Or, Lady Cassana Baratheon lives to see her son marry Lady Lyanna Stark. The business of queenmaking falls to her.
Relationships: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 20
Kudos: 120





	these deeds will make us mad

**Author's Note:**

> title from macbeth, because lady macbeth was the inspiration for this POV.

“The Lady Lyanna went for a ride to see the sunrise, and she returned not long ago. I believe she attends to her son,” says the servant girl, making a mockery of a proper curtsy. The serving girl is one of Lyanna’s additions to the household; a peasant woman met in a nearby town, who impressed her eldest son’s wife, and now supports her family with her wages.

“Of course she did,” Lady Cassana Baratheon smiles kindly, and dismisses the girl.

Jon is the sweetest child, Cassana muses, as she sweeps through the halls on a quest for Jon’s mother. His wild curly hair bounces in the wind when he gives Renly chase around the yard, and when he plays with other children his age, he never throws tantrums. He shares his toys happily, and smiles shyly at girls, sparing a moment to play with their dolls while all the other boys cannot stop whacking each other with sticks. In his lessons, Jon is rapt, as bright as lightning, and the only time he is even moderately disagreeable is when he is denied a second bedtime story.

Lyanna is as sweet as her son, and Cassana, the long-suffering mother of three boys, cherishes her as one might a cool drink after riding hard through a hot desert. Lyanna’s lady mother had passed when the girl was hardly out of the cradle, and she had wept to Cassana once that she finally, _finally_ had a mother. Cassana had sobbed then as well, and the two had embraced in a way that only women truly could.

Together, the two of them are a balm to Cassana’s gentle heart, and she grieves that Steffon will never see this grandchild of theirs - as much as she grieves that he is not present to raise up Renly to a man. Renly is far too soft for the likes of the knights of House Baratheon, and many believe the fault for that lies at Cassana’s feet. _Too much mothering,_ the Stormlords jest sourly, and Robert laughs with them.

Jon is by far the best part of her eldest son’s marriage. The only good thing, she might say.

“Fair morning, good mother,” Lyanna greets her when she is found, cheeks still ruddy from her morning ride. The redness of the face becomes her, but it will fade soon. The yellow bruise around Lyanna’s neck, the tip of which is only barely visible above her high collar, will endure longer.

The emotional scars, a lifetime, she thinks, and nearly sheds tears.

“Fair morning indeed, for you are the most beautiful sight for an old woman to set eyes upon,” Cassana replies, leaning down to peek at Jon, who hides behind his mother’s skirts. “My morning would only be improved if I could find my grandson abouts somewhere. I have the sweetest of candies for him, you see, but I fear I might let Renly have it if I cannot find my darling Jon soon…”

Jon pokes his head out, dark eyes wide with curiosity. Cassana’s words die in her throat.

On Jon’s tiny face is a bruise, purpling between his hair line and his cheek on the right side. It is fresh enough, and Cassana’s heart sinks low. She hands Jon the promised candy without another word, and rises to meet Lyanna’s eyes. The girl has the audacity to look _ashamed_ , as if she put the bruise there herself. They both know she did not.

“Dearest Lyanna,” Cassana sighs, and Lyanna picks up Jon to hold him to her.

“Jon is so brave, isn’t he?” Lyanna says, her voice breaking, belying the depth of her frustration. “He will be a great knight one day and protect women and children all over Westeros. I am so proud to be your Mama, Jon.”

That gets a small smile out of Jon, who accepts his mother’s kisses as he nibbles on his treat. Cassana gives him a kiss as well, and rubs Lyanna’s arm to reassure her.

“He is, indeed,” Cassana soothes the both of them, “and many great knights will be coming to celebrate your name day, soon, in a grand tourney. Might be you shall squire for one of them one day, little Jon. How does that sound?”

Jon nods from where he is clinging to his mother’s neck, and turns to hide his sticky little face in Lyanna’s hair. Cassana speaks with Lyanna then, knowing Jon to be a child who simply needs to be left alone when upset. 

“We have received a raven from King’s Landing,” Cassana tells her, not bothering with further pleasantries. She does not miss the way Lyanna’s grey eyes light up, before dimming once more. “King Rhaegar will attend the tourney, it seems, so we must make hasty preparations for a royal retinue that we were not expecting. I will speak to Robert about increasing the purse for the joust, and if you might assist with the changes to the feast, as well as organizing pavilions for the King’s men.”

“I will do so immediately,” Lyanna promises, shifting Jon to her other side so that he is not between them any longer. “Do you know the number of men who will ride with the King?”

 _She does not say his name,_ Cassana notes, and feels weary suddenly, though it is early in the day. She has felt weary for so long now. “About 50, his message relayed. I have left the raven with Maester Cressen, if you wish to look upon it.”

Lyanna wishes to, of course. It was written in the King’s own hand, and the girl is not savvy enough to hide her excitement. Cassana did not attend Harrenhall with her son, but she has heard the stories. Robert’s fury was beyond belief when he returned home.

Still, Cassana trusts her to make the extra preparations for the tourney.

They all named her willful and stubborn when she came to Storm’s End, a wolf who had never been trained in the arts of the fairer sex. Cassana had feared what a mess the girl might make of her position of Great Lady, but that quickly turned to delight when Lyanna joined their household.

Lyanna was headstrong, yes, but she was also smart and quick. She treated the household with great kindness, bringing a liveliness that the castle had sorely lacked since the ocean swallowed Steffon’s ship. Cassana took great joy in teaching her all she knew, and Lyanna refused to do anything less than excel. The happiness she had brought with her, some indomitable force within her, had been a healing. When Jon was born, House Baratheon’s joy reached its zenith, and Cassana had thought - _perhaps. Perhaps she might come to love Robert in her time…_

The bruises began to appear not long after that.

 _I don’t know my own strength,_ Robert had said morosely when Cassana descended on him in true Baratheon fury. He had poured himself another cup of ale, and the cruel satisfaction at seeing a cut on his handsome face had surprised her. Robert was her son. But Cassana was a woman, nonetheless, and she remembered fearing Steffon’s cruelty before they grew to know and love one another.

She had never needed to fear Steffon. It was their son, it seemed, who women needed to fear. And now, little boys must fear him too. It horrified her, but there was naught for her to do, for Robert had not listened to her in many years. She was his mother, but she was just another woman for all the good her counsel did.

Cassana makes her way to the training yard, to speak with her son. He is not here, the knights laugh. Still abed from a long night, they roar, and she wants to scream.  
.  
.  
.  
“A feast fit for a King,” Robert bellows when he returns, the hall utterly stinking of dead meat. More meat had been needed when news of a royal retinue had arrived, and so near a third of Storm’s End had departed the castle for a grand hunt.

Cassana speaks quickly, hurriedly bringing all the attention to her. Half a sneer has formed on Lyanna’s beautiful face, and if Robert sees it there might be trouble for the girl later. “An incredible success, my Lord. The opening feast of this tourney will be spoken of for years to come, I imagine.” 

“And plenty of rabbit, of course, for my Lady,” Robert continues, an almost hopeful look in his eyes as he turns to Lyanna, “as it is her favorite, and her happiness is mine.”

He is always most romantic after he hurts her, the whole household knows. And now he had hurt Jon as well, and his efforts at kindness had doubled. It never lasted long.

Lyanna smiles tightly, and bows her head in deference. She will do enough to appease him, but no more. Any more and Robert might take it as an invitation. He claimed his rights regardless of her feelings on the matter, but Lyanna refused to be charming lest it encourage him.

Indeed, her moon’s blood had come just the day before, which pleased her. Robert was a man after all, and he did not touch her at such a time. Then there would be the tourney, with great drinking and whoring to be had, so Lyanna had near a moon to look forward to without Robert forcing his way inside of her. 

That reprieve alone was enough to have her look forward to this tourney. Jon’s fifth nameday was the excuse given, but Lyanna knew her husband was merely restless, and wished for some war games.

Her other reason for excitement was much the more scandalous. The raven she had sent inviting the King and his children to the grand event had been identical to the others sent to all other Houses, except she had not signed it as Lady Lyanna Baratheon. She had simply written _Lyanna_ at the bottom of the scroll, and prayed in her makeshift Godswood that he would come, so that she might look upon him once more. For no reason other than she wanted to desperately. 

And now, after five long years, there was hardly any time left to wait at all.  
.  
.  
.  
The various Storm Lord’s arrive first, almost a full day before the tourney begins. Ned and Benjen come in the evening, and Lyanna embraces Benjen for so long it is almost awkward for all of those around them.

Ned, though. She greets him courteously, and wraps her arms around him, but there is an ice between them that had never been there before. His eyes fall on the fading bruise on her chest, one she did not even attempt to hide. It would be gone within another day or two, but for now, it was plain as the moon above them. There is guilt in his eyes when they look upon each other again, but Lyanna does not bow her head.

 _You gave me to him,_ she wants to lay the accusation at his feet. She does no such thing. It’s rare that she sees her brothers, after all.

“How fares Catelyn?” she inquires, and Ben smiles widely when he tells her of their nephew and niece, and the baby coming now. 

Dinner has finished, but she shows Ben and Ned to their rooms in the castle herself, and tarries at their doors before returning to her chambers after much chatter. She is practically grinning when she enters, only to find a lump beneath her sheets.

“Is there a burglar, here to kidnap me for my fine jewels,” she affects a more womanly voice, and hears a small gasp. Said lump scrambles with the bedding, before his curly little head of hair popped up.

“No, Mama, it is only me!” Jon insists, eyes wide, believing that he has truly frightened her. She jumps onto the bed then, and tickles him mercilessly, until they are both near breathless with laughter. 

“Oh, Jon,” she whispers, once her son, her only son, has fallen asleep. He is so restful in slumber, and his face was so Stark. That had been a blessing, she knew, and she would not risk it again. If she bore Robert a child with his coloring, who would one day grow up to favor his father, then she might go mad. She might not love such a child, and what a fate that would be. 

She had planned to simply drink the child out of her. Many peasant women believed that excessive drink killed babies in the womb. It had been Cassana, of all people, who had presented a neater solution.

 _Drink this,_ she had thrust the tea into Lyanna’s hands, after a night Robert had accidentally left the door open when stumbling in drunk, and the whole castle had heard her protests and cries. No child would be born of rape under her goodmother’s watchful eyes.

Cassana had provided her much moon tea since then, although they never spoke of it.

The old woman had held onto hope that Lyanna might love Robert, that more children would follow eventually. Indeed, at first, Lyanna had hoped that she might love Robert one day. She had been disabused of that notion quickly. Lyanna spoke up too often, defended herself too much, and Robert lashed out in the only way he knew how - with his hands. He always felt dreadfully sorry, of course, but what did it matter?

“If he mistreats you, my Lady,” a Prince had once told her, a fire lit within him that Lyanna had never seen before, “you must write to me. I will release you from your vows, the consequences be damned.”

She had not written Rhaegar but to invite him to the tourney. She could not. For Jon would remain in his father’s household, and she could not abandon him such a fate. Even Rhaegar did not have standing to deny a man his own son.

Prince Rhaegar had become King Rhaegar before Jon’s first name day, and poor, widowed King Rhaegar around Jon’s third. Lyanna had taken a quill to paper and written endless condolences, that Robert hastily signed on behalf of Storm’s End, although he cursed the Dragon King as he did so.

His hatred for Rhaegar was immense. So immense that when Lady Cassana, her good mother, saw the reply before anyone else had, she hid the letter, reading it only by candlelight in her chambers in the dead of night. It was then she knew that her good daughter loved the King still. She had given Lyanna the letter nonetheless, in exchange for a promise from Lyanna that she would not respond to it. 

Lyanna considers unearthing the letter from underneath the loose floorboard and reading it once more. But the wind howls outside, breaking her reverie, and she sleeps instead.  
.  
.  
.  
Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, arrives midday on the eve of the tourney. He is dressed in fine clothing, the deepest of black making the man seem larger than he was. The black of mourning, still, for Princess Elia. 

“Your Grace,” Cassana curtsies, and the King kisses her hand. Cassana keeps her eyes on Lyanna. The King does as well. Robert’s fists clench, and Eddard Stark bites his tongue.  
.  
.  
.  
“You have done so well,” Cassana praises Lyanna, who beams at her. The hall is full, and beautifully decorated, with vines and flowers adorning the walls. Good wine flows throughout, and hearty toasts rise up often.

The hall is not half as gorgeous as Lyanna, though.

She wears her hair up, in a braided style, with daylilies sorted throughout her soft curls. She wears the simplest of jewelry, which emphasizes the expanse of smooth, tanned skin that is exposed by her sleeveless gown. The rich white material has her looking ethereal and virginal, although she is certainly no maid, and Robert’s eyes are hungry upon her form, glaring at any other man who so much as speaks to her. That those men are her brothers seem to concern Cassana’s son not.

 _I hope you know what you’re doing, girl_ , she despairs, and returns to watching the hall.

King Rhaegar also sits upon the dais, although his eyes are kept ahead of him purposefully. Too purposefully. These children are fooling no one, Cassana thinks with some humor, and she turns as if to share the thought with Steffon. But, of course, Steffon is not there.

“Are you unwell, my Lady?” comes the strong voice of the King. Evidently, he was walking past her, only to see tears falling.

“Very well, Your Grace,” she smiles serenely, the moment of weakness having passed her by. She must change the subject. Lyanna is sitting ramrod straight next to her. “Might you grace us with a song this evening? I have heard plenty of tales of the great beauty of your voice.”

Robert scoffs nearby, already in his cups. 

“I fear not, my Lady,” he responds, sounding genuinely apologetic, “for I have not sung for an audience in a long time, ever since the Queen has passed. The time has not felt right quite yet.”

Cassana inclines her head agreeable. “Of course, Your Grace. Although I never had the honor of meeting her, I have heard the Queen was a fine woman. Perhaps a dance, then.”

Rhaegar seems to think on that for a time. Cassana blinks, then realizes her idiocy. She has gotten so old, she reproaches herself, and opens her mouth, only for him to speak first.

“A dance would seem appropriate. It would be an honor to open the dancing for the evening. I find myself short a partner, however. Might the Lady of Storm’s End honor me such, in the name of your son’s name day tourney?”

Benjen Stark pipes up, “that sounds exciting, Lya, won’t you do it?”

 _He knows too_ , Cassana thinks sourly, _but he does not know of Robert’s treatment of her, of how he might punish her for this. None of them do, fools as they are._

Lyanna rises from her seat when Robert grants her permission through gritted teeth, though, and takes the King’s proffered hand. The hall falls into a hush when the pair comes to the dance floor, hands linked.

“Our host has been most generous, honoring us all with such a feast as we have not seen in some time,” Rhaegar’s kingly voice fills the hall, and glasses are raised, along with cheers. “And now, House Baratheon will do us one more honor, as the beautiful Lady Lyanna has agreed to open the dancing for us all. So let us drink, to the hospitality of House Baratheon!”

The hall screams and drinks, and Cassana only twists her thin fingers around each other, as she watched Robert quietly seethe. Eddard Stark looks her way, appearing alarmed, as if he has never seen Robert in such a state of rage. Cassana finds that hard to believe, but turns her gaze to the two dancing around the center of the room. Blessedly, they are not overly familiar with one another, and there is even a respectable distance between the two. For a moment, Cassana foolishly hopes that they have turned cold towards one another, having forgotten whatever passed between them at a tourney in Harrenhal many years prior.

Their eyes do not leave each other the entire passage of the dance, however, grey meeting purple with as much force as one of the storms that break against the castle, the storms that stole away her own beloved, and Cassana folds her hands into her lap.

 _So that is the way of it_ , she thinks, but cannot find it in her heart to feel anger. Lyanna has been hurt enough, by a boy Cassana fed at her own breast and should have moulded into a better man. Robert should be a man who would not grasp Lyanna so hard that her skin flushed purple, who would not have bastards that Lyanna would then graciously bring into the castle. If the girl’s only respite is her love for Rhaegar Targaryen, then Cassana has no energy to fight such a thing. She would lose, anyways.

Let Robert be wroth, she decides when the dance finishes and Robert all but yanks Lyanna from the King’s hands to lead her in their own dance, surrounded by other pairs. For Lyanna was as a daughter to Cassana as well, and she would not hold her heart against her.

Robert leads Lyanna in two dances, with the girl looking increasingly miserable.

“Might I cut in,” interrupts Arthur Dayne, resplendent knight of the Kingsguard, and he whisks Lyanna away, no doubt at the order of King Rhaegar. 

“Would you not like to dance as well, my Lord?” she asks of Eddard Stark, who had taken his sister’s seat.

Eddard Stark shook his head as if suddenly melancholic. “There is only one woman I wish to dance with, and she is not present.”

Cassana had not heard of Eddard taking a wife, or even being betrothed, so his tale seems to be one of heartbreak. Aren’t all the stories, these days? She pats his hand.  
.  
.  
.  
Robert had outdrank the entire hall at the feast, and Cassana could not sleep for the knot in her chest.

She had summoned Cressen to her room, although the hour was inappropriately late. They were both much too old for such a thing to matter.

“You saw the way the King looked upon Lady Lyanna,” she worried, glad to have a companion to bear her worries as well, “if Robert...takes his liberties tonight, the King will see the evidence on the morrow, and he might act rashly.”

“Is it rash to defend the woman you love,” Cressen asked, stroking his beard. “For if any of your boys were defenseless, Lady Cassana, and someone hurt them, I would not hesitate to defend them, even with my own life.”

Cassana looked at him reproachfully. The man was hardly ever of any help, and he never calmed her fears, as Steffon once had with such ease. She had only called for the Maester because he was among the dwindling number of people worthy of trust in the Baratheon home.

“Yes, but in this case, it is one of my boys we are speaking of, and I am quite fearful of what tomorrow brings.”

“I wouldn’t not worry,” Cressen half-smiles, although he lacks humor, “for Lord Robert drank so much, and I believe he left the castle with some men to see about the grounds.”

“To see about the whores, you mean,” Cassana speaks frankly, too tired for pretty language. “Lord Robert sees to the whores while his wife and the man who could, with a simple royal decree, make a mistress of her, sleep underneath one roof.”

“Just so, my Lady,” Cressen replies.

“Very well, then,” she sighs, defeated, “you may be on your way, Maester. Thank you for giving an old woman company.”

“It is my pleasure and my duty, Lady Baratheon,” he looks towards the floor respectfully, before departing.

After he takes his leave, Cassana still cannot sleep. What’s more, her head hurts. She decides to retrieve warm milk from the kitchens, to perhaps aid her in rest. 

She takes her candle, and passes by Lyanna’s chambers purposefully, to see if there is any noise coming out of it. There is not, but when Cassana touches the door, it moves slightly - it has not been completely closed.

Upon further investigation, Lyanna is not even in her bed. Cassana _runs_ out of the chambers, feeling somewhat faint. How _stupid_ Lyanna was, sneaking out on such a night! Robert could return at any time, and if he found her missing then surely he would not be held back from fighting King Rhaegar. Not to mention what he might do to Lyanna and Jon!

 _My son’s wife is likely making love to another man, and my concern is for her and her lover, instead of my son._ The thought is a punch to the stomach.

There is a light near the end of the hallway Cassana has found herself in, emanating from the Great Hall where the feast had taken place but a few hours ago. It was a soft light, likely only from a few candles, and Cassana makes her steps quiet as she approaches, extinguishing her own candle.

It is as she feared, but not as bad. Or maybe it is worse. No, it’s better. She cannot decide. She cannot tear her eyes away.

Lyanna and King Rhaegar are dancing again, as they had in front of all the eyes of their guests mere hours prior. But this time, they are dancing as Cassana initially feared they would.

Close, so _close_ , more swaying than anything else. There is no music, but the two of them together are spellbinding in their ardor, even if they do not cover much ground. Rhaegar’s arms are possessively wrapped around her as if she is a fragile treasure, and he wears only breeches and a black sleeping tunic. When they turn around, she sees Lyanna is in but her nightgown. Her head rests on Rhaegar’s chest, her curls free, and they appear to be simply embracing now, rather than dancing.

She strains to hear the words that pass between them.

“How beautiful you looked tonight, my love,” the silver King croons, kissing the top of her head with all the tenderness of young lovers.

“It was for you,” Cassana thinks Lyanna says, “I only wish to be beautiful for you.” They are silent for a while, before he speaks again.

“Why did you not write to me, when he laid a hand on you? I would have ended your marriage in a moment. I would have ridden here and killed him,” Rhaegar’s voice has the reddest of rages in it, but it is also unbearably gentle, like a simple forest stream. Every word he says screams that he would not hurt her, would never hurt her. _If only Robert could balance his emotions so, he might have earned her affections._

“I have Jon, now,” Lyanna replies, after a beat, “and my honor as a Stark. I cannot run any longer, now that I have said my vows, not only to my husband, but to my son. I wish we had run away before any of this. I wish you were Jon’s father. He is the most wonderful boy.”

“He has the most wonderful mother. But I fear running away would have caused its own great deal of problems, dear Lya. I hate that there is no reality in which you are not caused pain.”

The silence weighs on them again, until Cassana hears the soft sounds of crying. She has heard those sounds a thousand times, she knows, to her great shame. The tears of Lyanna Stark.

“He hurts me, like many men hurt their wives. But then he _hit Jon_ ,” Lyanna sobs into his chest. Cassana dares to peak around the corner.

Lyanna’s back is to her. The King’s bare arms are holding her to him, slumped as she is as she is wracked with sobs, and he whispers some comforting words or other into her hair. Cassana flees the hall, returning to her room as fast as her feet can carry her.

 _Gods help me,_ she thinks, _for there is none to blame but me. I have let this go on for far too long._  
.  
.  
.  
She is not a pious woman by any standards, but she spends hours on her knees in the small Sept while the tourney cheering beats against the castle walls. Robert wins the melee, perhaps an ungracious thing for a host to do, but his joy at his victory reminds Cassana of the boy he had been once.

It brings a ghost of a smile to her face. She misses that boy - he had always been unruly, but he had loved his Mama and Papa a great deal. He had even liked Stannis for many years, until Steffon sent him to the Vale and he met Eddard Stark.

Robert had still loved her for some time, had wept in her arms when they saw the ship carrying the man they both adored break on the rocks beneath them. Steffon had been the most wonderful husband, a wise Lord Paramount, and a halfway decent father.

Those days were gone, she decided with finality, near the last day of the tourney. It was when Ser Arthur won the joust that she truly came to peace with her choice. 

The victor had crowned some pretty Dornish girl, making all the maidens sigh dreamily at his gallantry. For a moment, though, he had been about to crown Lyanna. It made much sense. He was a celibate knight of the Kingsguard, who was forbidden any affections, and Lyanna was the Lady of Storm’s End. It would not have been improper whatsoever, a respectful gesture to his host. Ser Arthur’s captivating purple eyes were on her, an easy smile gracing his handsome face, and Robert had grabbed Lyanna’s shoulder with strength that had the she-wolf hunching in on herself, wincing. The winner knight’s eyebrows had furrowed before he urged his horse to gallop past her with the crown of chrysanthemum and magnolia, one that would have been a divine sight resting on Lyanna’s strong Stark brow.

Cassana had placed her hand on Robert’s thigh. He’d looked at her in surprise, and she’d sent a furious, pointed look at where his grip was nearly white on his lady wife’s shoulder. He met her gaze with anger and defiance for a long moment, before letting go and clapping for what had transpired.

“You have shamed her this past week, with all your whores and drink,” Cassana upbraids him sharply, once she is alone with Robert. 

He grimaces. “I am the Lord of this castle, and of her, and of you. I will take what I please, especially when my wife’s bed is so cold to me,” he thunders, before taking his leave.

She sits for a minute, until a throat is cleared behind her.

“Lord Stark,” she says, with some surprise. It is the elder, Robert’s brother of choice, who faces her now. 

“Lady Cassana,” he says gruffly, his hands crossed behind his back.

The air is strained between them, for they both know what is going unsaid. Now, it will be said after all. The young Lord takes a deep breath and looks her in the eyes, asking his question without a trace of hesitation.

“Does Robert force himself on my sister?”

She looks out of the bay window, which gives the view of Shipbreaker Bay. “Yes, my Lord, he does.”

That almost is enough, but Eddard Stark steels himself, and asks another. “And the boy? Does he strike the boy?”

Cassana closes her eyes when she responds. “Only once.”

“I see,” Lord Eddard says, his steady tone boiling, “so when my sister begged me not to give her to Robert, that he would only stray from her bed, and I gave her my assurances of his love, I was a fool and blind. Thank you, my Lady. I shall take my leave of you now.”

“Lord Eddard,” she calls, when he is almost gone from the room. He stops, but does not turn to look at her. “I would give you assurances of my own, that this will not continue on. I love your sister as a daughter of my own, and she will not continue to suffer under my eyes. I promise you this, indeed I will even swear it on my life.”

He turns his head enough that she can see his face. “I thank you, generous Lady, for Lyanna speaks highly of you. We barely had a mother of our own, you see, and your kindness has affected her greatly. But it is not your responsibility to care for my sister’s wellbeing. It is that of her family.”

He takes his leave then. Cassana does not see him again before the Stark banners are dropped, and the Stark men depart Storm’s End early, after a legendary row erupts between the two boys that honorable Lord Jon Arryn raised as his own.  
.  
.  
.  
Rhaelle Targaryen was a striking, if austere, woman. Cassana met her godmother but twice before the woman passed, and the silver-haired woman made her feel quite...small.

The portrait of Rhaelle in the Small Hall of Storm’s End brings those meetings to the forefront of Cassana’s mind. She was not particularly beautiful, her coloring more fascinating than her features, but she was captivating in her own way. The harshness of her countenance was similar to that of Orys Baratheon himself, the portrait of _him_ lying at the end of the hall. It is not hard to believe that Orys was Aegon’s bastard brother after all, when the Targaryen iron is so clear in the lines of his face.

Rhaegar Targaryen shares that iron. She realizes that when she finds him looking upon the portrait of his relative, his jaw strong and eyes hard.

“Lady Cassana,” he nods his head politely, but there is no warmth in his voice. She almost shivers.

“Your Grace,” she curtsies, “I see you have found my good mother’s portrait. She was a strong woman, like many of your line.”

He raises an eyebrow at her flattery. “Yes, many of my line have been so. Many have also been cruel, even to one another. Blood of the dragon, the people say. The same blood that your sons share.”

She swallows air. They are no longer speaking in riddles. Very well, then.

“Some of them even kinslayed. For love, or honor. Both. What does my King think of this?” 

“That would depend, my Lady. Aemond Targaryen crowned a King he had no right to, stealing the rights of his own sister, and he was slew by his own uncle, who perished in the same battle. There is a time when death is deserved, but you cannot survive such a sin. It weighs too heavily on the soul.” Rhaegar speaks slowly, as if each word is meaningful now. _It is good that he already understands me._

“So it depends on what the kinslayer believes their own life to be worth, then,” she says, letting those words hang in the air for several heartbeats. 

He meets her eyes. She is momentarily struck by how handsome he is. There has been so much on her mind that she has not had time to truly look, but now she sees him through Lyanna’s eyes.

Cassana lets the pretences fall away, and speaks freely, “my life is surely worth less than that of a beautiful young woman, a mother and her son, who wish to be in peace. My life is worth less than the love they might have in the future, in the arms of a man who will love them both as his own. My life is worth less than my Stannis having a seat worthy of his sense of honor, of justice, or of my boy, Renly, being raised at Court, where his sensitive nature might be celebrated instead of condemned.”

His eyebrows furrow, and he appraises her. Will she be judged worthy of committing treason against her Lord, she wonders, wryly. But then, he has no reason to trust her words. She has every reason to trust him, the way he cradled Lyanna to his chest the night she stumbled on them in the Great Hall having told her all she needed to know.

If his love for his Lady is as strong as Cassana believes it is, he will do _anything_ to free her. Even bestow his trust upon a stranger. Upon an old woman who plots against her own son.

“You will forgive my hesitance, my Lady. You have taken me by surprise. Your words strike me in my very heart.” 

She can see on his face that he is taken aback. She is not finished, though. “Your Grace, if I may. It must happen when you are quite far, for Lyanna cannot suffer from any suspicion. All I require are the means - something untraceable, that will assist with an injury acquired with riding. And something quick, for afterwards.”

A lesser man might have let his jaw fall open. Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, belies his complete disbelief through the slight parting of his lips.

That, and his indigo eyes, which almost glow. _I am giving him everything he wants,_ she thinks with no small amount of sadness, _and I am dooming my son, and my own soul._

For Lyanna. For Jon. For Stannis, and Renly, and for the sake of Storm’s End, the castle her dear husband had taken such pride in, that it might remain a home of leadership as it was under his stewardship, rather than the seat of a man who drank and whored and left his petitioners to his wife and mother.

They come to a silent agreement. She sleeps easy that night, and the night is blessedly silent, a rare occurrence in the land that storms love so. 

When the King departs, Lyanna is not present for the farewells, on Robert’s jealous commands. But the King turns from his horse, when he believes no one is looking, and keeps his gaze on a specific window high in the castle. He touches his fingers to his lips, and then curls them into a fist that he holds against his breastplate.

Cassana holds Renly’s hand, although the boy is too old for it, and kisses the top of his head. He is inconsolable now that the tourney is over, and sulks for many days. 

Renly requests a tourney for his name day, in a few moons time. Cassana suggests a hunt instead.  
.  
.  
.  
Robert falls from his horse, and is trampled by a boar. When Cassana places a hand to his skin, she immediately snatches it away. His blood is on _fire._  
.  
.  
.  
“His fever is quite high, my Lady,” Maester Cressen relays, reluctant to give the dark news to the woman he has been in service to for several decades. Cassana smiles tightly, and turns back to where her son lies abed. 

Her penance is staying by his side. He turns to look upon her, hair slick with sweat, eyes glazed over, heat coloring his young, handsome face. The confusion in his gaze makes her think of when he was but a babe in arms, and her heart falters at the remembrance.

“Lyanna…” her mumbles, holding up his hand as if Lyanna is standing simply out of reach, and he might touch her to gain her attention.

 _She is a mother herself,_ Cassana reasons, _she will understand that I am not being cruel. I have done much for her, let her do this one thing for me._ She summons Lyanna, who comes, despite Cassana’s fears that she would not.

This little woman who entranced her son so, barely five and a half feet of unbridled energy and emotion, a face that only grows lovelier by the year, has a heart of gold. For she comes in the room and sits at Robert's bedside despite all the barbarity done to her in the name of love.

“Lyanna…” he gasps again, glassy eyes turned to her face. He touches her cheek with all the tenderness he should have shown her before.

“Robert,” the sweet girl replies, although the fingertips tracing her face must burn. She doesn’t back down or look away. She does not appear angry, or hurt. Her fair face is utterly empty.

“You and the boy,” Robert murmurs, before a heaving cough racks his chest, so intense it must rattle his bones. Lyanna hands him a linen, and it comes away soaked in blood, blacker than it is red. 

Lyanna looks to Cassana then, concern clear, and Cassana endures a moment of mad panic. _Gods, what have I done_. 

“I have loved you, Lyanna,” he wheezes, strain in every line of his face, “you and Ned, even though the two of you might hate me. I have loved you dearly.”

“Of course, my Lord,” she says smoothly, “and you are forgiven. Now you shall rest. I will see to Jon.” She bows and hesitates. She tarries for more than a moment, and Cassana regards her indecision.

Lyanna leaves a kiss on Robert’s sweaty brow and touches his hand before fleeing the room. It is a kindness, one only a woman with a soft heart would give. That is Lyanna, Cassana muses; a hard shell, but an undying grace lies beneath. 

It is a kindness done for a dying man. Lyanna’s forgiveness is all he waited for. Cassana did not even need the second poison, for Robert sleeps and never wakes again.  
.  
.  
.  
_Noble King Rhaegar,_

_Lord Robert has died. He was injured during a hunt and passed away from ensuing fever. With your permission, Robert’s younger brother, Lord Stannis, will be castellan of Storm’s End until my son, Jon Baratheon, reclaims his seat at the proper age. I, too, will remain in Storm’s End for some time, until the proper mourning period has been observed. Then, I will travel with my son to Winterfell for the length of a few moons, so that he might see the North for the first time. My late husband made many promises that young Jon would undertake such a trip with him one day, but alas, it did not come to pass during his lifetime. I believe I am honoring his wishes._

_I have observed that Lord Hand Connington is known to visit his lands regularly, as any good Lord should. Should your Grace ever accompany him, I would be honored to host you in Storm’s End, in memory of your late cousin._

_Faithfully yours,  
Lady Lyanna_

Cassana folds the letters, pouring fresh wax on it and pressing the stag seal back onto it where she broke the original. She places it in the rookery, along with the other letters announcing Robert’s death, to be sent with the morning light.

Her hand hovers over the letters addressed to Winterfell. One is addressed to Lord Brandon Stark. The other simply reads: For Ned. 

Cassana does not read them, and scurries back to the Sept to pray once more.  
.  
.  
.  
_Lady Lyanna,_

_I share in your grief. Cousin Robert was a certain type of man that we will not forget anytime soon. I cannot imagine the wounds you carry. I pray that in time, healing will come, aided by those who hold you dear._

_I recall you are a devout keeper of the Old Gods. I have had a weirwood installed in the Godswood of the Red Keep some years ago, supplanted from the Isle of Faces, although few keep the Old Gods in King’s Landing. I will offer a prayer for the safety of your and your son in your travels before your Gods. I have never been to Winterfell myself, but I plan to make such a journey soon, in the royal progress to happen in three years hence._

_If you might be so kind as to write to me when you arrive at your destinations, my Lady. I would know you are safe, as you were most beloved to my kin, and knowledge of your wellbeing would be a great comfort to me._

_Lord Stannis has my permission to overlook the daily needs of the Stormlands while your son grows strong. I pray that the child inherits the grace, patience, and honor of his mother. Such traits may be difficult to keep to in the moment, but in the long term they will be rewarded. In the meantime, I leave the Baratheon lands in the capable hands of Lord Stannis._

_Be at peace, Lady Lyanna. Our paths will cross again soon._

_If you would be so kind as to pass my condolences and regards onto Lady Cassana. Although our conversations were brief, I will never forget her strength of character. It is my intention to find an appropriate fostering for her youngest son, Renly, in the year to come, in my late cousin’s name. I am sure I will speak to her further on this matter, but I hope these assurances may be of some respite to her in this time of mourning._

_Yours,  
King Rhaegar_

Rhaegar Targaryen has always known he would one day crown Lyanna his Queen. After reading the letter that Lyanna hands her that she might read the final sentences, Cassana knows this with absolute certainty. He planted the weirwood years ago, so this had been his plan all along.

 _I was merely a cog in the wheel._ Robert’s death did not need to be of her doing at all. But it was, was it not?

Cassana retires to bed without taking dinner. Lyanna brings a tray of food to her with her own hands, fussing over her good mother, whom she believes to be wracked with grief over the loss of Robert.

She knows nothing of the truth, a fact Cassana is grateful for. Lyanna’s sense of justice lies at the core of her, her love of family a close second. Cassana could not bear the horror in her eyes if she knew. Rhaegar Targaryen is not so honest a man that he will tell her, either, Cassana knows, for that would bring him low in her eyes.

Lyanna’s love, her loyalty, is a gift unparalleled. Neither of them would throw such a precious thing away, and so she will take the secret of her sin to the grave. _Will you forgive me, Steffon?_ she weeps, alone in the featherbed meant for two, the one that is overly large for her alone but that she cannot get rid of, for it is the very bed she and her lover made their children on. The bed feels cold to her for the first time tonight.  
.  
.  
.  
“The King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Rulers of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men!” the herald announces, when the royal couple descends the dais, arm in arm, for the first dance of the opening feast.

The King’s tourney was a sight to behold, the first great one of Summer, in celebration of the bitter end to the Greyjoy Rebellion. Bitter for the Greyjoys, of course. The King’s victory had been decisive, and Stannis had made a name for himself with the Redwyne fleet under his command. He had been offered Master of Ships, but her son wished to remain in Storm’s End until Jon reclaimed his rights.

Cassana hardly had the strength to travel to the capital, but she wished to see Renly once more, and that had been enough for her to undergo the trials of the journey. He is half a man of seven and ten now, and a pleasant smile remains on his face as he sits by her side. She holds his hand, and the soft son that he was, he allows it.

Both Rhaegar and Lyanna wear the colors of House Targaryen, and their dance is almost violent in how intimately they touch one another. When Lyanna spins, her dress curves around her body, and if Cassana had blinked she might have missed the bump of her midsection. _A child for my good daughter, but not my grandchild._

This will be Lyanna’s first child in eleven years. Cassana suspects the King allowed her to drink moon tea until she was ready to bear another child. The King was desperate enough to have her that Cassana doubts there were any conditions he would not have accepted, if it meant he could wed and bed her. 

“I remember these two opening another tourney, not so long ago,” Renly whispers to her, sounding bemused, as if the whole thing is a great lark. “But of course, she was still my brother’s wife then. Do you remember that, Mother?”

He looks at her with mirth in his eyes. He speaks as if she is another one of his courtly friends, who will relish in his gossiping. Cassana indulges him - did she not wish for him to be brought here, so that his gentle, humorous disposition would be allowed to grow freely, and he might make a place for himself among the intrigues of Court?

“Indeed, and a good wife she was to dear Robert. Just as she is a good wife to the King,” she responds, before taking another sip of her wine. Arbor Gold. Steffon’s favorite.

“Quite so, Mother,” Renly laughs gaily, and kisses her upon the cheek. 

Before she leaves the feast to lie down, she approaches the royal seat. 

“Good mother,” Lyanna cries, stepping down from the dais before Cassana can curtsy, and embraces her warmly. Late Queen Mother Rhaella is her good mother now, but Cassana smiles to hear herself named so. “What a sight! It has been far too long that we have not seen each other. Renly is a poor substitute for you, my Lady.”

Renly scoffs good naturedly behind her. “Queen Lyanna, your words wound me. I will continue to endear myself to you until you think otherwise.”

“Yes, I am quite sure you will,” Lyanna replies cheekily, a lightness Cassana has not had the good fortune of seeing for many years now, and they all laugh.

“Lady Cassana,” King Rhaegar’s deep voice interrupts the moment. Cassana turns to him and inclines her head in deference, her knees protesting at the idea of bending in a curtsy. “It is fair to see you once more. My wife and I pray for your health often.”

“I thank you for your prayers,” she hears herself responding, “and I am quite well, Your Grace. All is as it should be, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> normalize jon being lyanna's son more than anything else and rhaegar being westeros's #1 stepdad.


End file.
